Faramir and the Power of Music
by Authoressinhiding
Summary: Ever since Eowyn left, Faramir hasn't had a moment's peace.  Cornered in his study by yet another one of those Things, he turns to music to find an escape.  Oneshot


**Disclaimer: All I own is the midget, and I'd be quite pleased to get rid of her.**

**A/N: This story is dedicated to Eavis, who gave me a prompt for another story, and it led to this.**

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><p>"Hey, there, handsome prince."<p>

Faramir, Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien, looked up from the giant stack of paperwork covering his desk to see a strange young woman. And by strange, he meant _**STRANGE**_. She was barely five foot three and skinnier than a halberd with –ehem– assets larger than an orc's head. Two orcs' head sitting adjacent to one another, actually. Her eyes, though a becoming shade of deep blue, were so large and protruding that they reminded him unpleasantly of Gollum. Her long, shiny hair was a golden color just a shade darker than Eowyn's, but it contained jarring streaks of red, dark brown, and black. As for her clothes, well, after Faramir's initial sweeping glance, he kept his eyes strictly confined to her face.

"Young lady, who are you, and what are you doing in my study?" He asked the question to play for time, sure he already knew the answer. How could his staff have let another one in? This was what happened when his wife left to go visit her future sister-in-law in Dol Amroth for a week. They'd had at least one unexpected, uninvited, unwanted visitor every six hours. Almost like clockwork. It was getting to be extremely aggravating.

"My name is Miriel Akallabeth Rosaria Ynglesberg, silly," giggled the anorexic midget with an oversized chest. "Don't you remember me? We were betrothed as infants."

The Steward shot her a skeptical look. "You are not thirty-nine, surely?"

"Oh." Miriel Akallabeth Rosaria Ynglesberg burst into a fresh set of giggles that sounded like steel scraping over stone. "Well, I was a baby. You were twenty-four." She sidled over to his desk and plopped down right in the middle of his paperwork piles. Parchment flew everywhere. Faramir groaned softly; it would take an hour to reorganize all that.

"We've been apart for far too long, beloved," the midget continued, leaning forward so that he had an excellent view down her pathetic excuse of a tunic.

All right. Enough was enough. This . . . thing was even more annoying than the last one (And he hadn't thought that was possible!). Faramir inhaled deeply, preparing himself to use the method taught to him by his new Elvish neighbors. Legolas swore by it, so it had better work.

"Here's a llama, there's a llama, and another little llama. Fuzzy llama, funny llama, llama, llama, duck."

"Whaaaaat? Farrie, why are you talking about llamas? They spit. That's so not sexhay."

"Llama, llama, cheesecake, llama, tablet, brick, potato, llama. Llama, llama, mushrooms, llama, llama, llama, duck."

"Okay, this is kinda weird." Miriel scooted off the desk, causing another avalanche of important documents.

"I was once a tree house. I lived in a cake. But I never saw the way the orange slayed the rake. I was only three years dead, but it told a tale. And now listen, little child, to the safety rail."

"Faramir, have you gone crazy?" She continued backing away.

"Did you ever see a llama? Kiss a llama on the llama? Llama's llama, tastes of llama, llama, llama duck."

The midget was practically whimpering now. "I don't do nerds. Or dorks. Please stop acting like a social retard!"

"Half the llama, twice the llama. Not a llama, farmer llama. Llama in a car, alarm a llama, llama, duck."

"What is wrong with you?" shrieked Miriel Akallabeth Rosaria Ynglesberg. "You're supposed to be perfect, not autistic!"

"Is that how it's told now? Is it all so old? Is it made of lemon juice, doorknob, ankle, cold? Now my song is getting thin. I've run out of luck. Time for me to retire now and become a duck."

As Faramir finished his song, the midget stared at him, open-mouthed, for one paralyzing long moment. Then she ran screaming from the room.

Grinning, the Steward of Gondor set to picking up his papers. He had no idea what half those nonsense words meant – was "llama" perhaps some strange Elvish dialect for "Begone, foul creature"? Ah, well. It had worked, and that was the important thing. He should probably invite Legolas over for dinner to celebrate. After drafting a message and sending it out with his fastest courier, Faramir returned to his giant heap of paperwork. The next one would be due in approximately five and a half hours, and he seriously needed to get some work done before then.

_Fin._

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><p><strong>AN: Review?**


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